That summer, teacher Caranfil had gone to spend his holidays at Neamţul Monastery and on the day when the events he related to me had occurred to him, he had taken a trip with a company of friends in the surroundings of the monastery, beyond Procov hermitage. When he had returned to the house of priest Chiprian, where he had put up, it was already night and Caranfil delighted in thinking of the soft and clean bed where he was going to sleep off the weariness of the day. On entering his room, he took the usual glance at the old engravings that decorated the walls. On one of them, the portraits of Czar Alexander II and of Empress Maria Feodorovna, upon which ruthless time had left all sorts of traces, hung alongside a picture of Maximilian's shooting, while on the opposite wall there was St. Agura and, a bit farther, Napoleon's portrait, done after a contemporary illustration. Preparing for bed, Caranfil thought of all sorts of things. The day had been well spent, in a pleasant and cheerful company... Caranfil smiled. In a few days he was going to take another trip, to take another trip to Neamţul fortress, which he had never visited. "Poor Stephen the Great," he thought. A great man and hospodar!" And, in an access of patriotism, Caranfil took off his coat and pacing the room, halted in front of Napoleon. "A terrible figure," the teacher resumed his musing, staring at the emperor's face… "But he too went to the bogs at Waterloo for the Duke of…" Here Caranfil stopped thinking, for the name of the hero at Waterloo failed to come promptly to his mind…"Let me go to bed," he thought, "for I have to rise early… Tomorrow I'll stay at home… I'm going to finish Tolstoy's novel… and then the day after tomorrow… What's his name?… The Duke of… Well, never mind him…" he concluded and pulled the blanket over himself.Then he placed his hands under his head and closed his eyes, resolving to go to sleep. However, something interfered with his plans. "Now, man, wait, that can't be!…" and he concentrated all his attention in order to rummage through the multitude of his knowledge and of proper names stored in his brains, the name of the English soldier."But what do I care after all?…" Caranfil thought when he saw the duke's reluctance to come to light… "I'd better get some rest, I think…" and he made a very resolute movement, pointing out that he insisted on sleeping."Nevertheless, I have to remember it…" he told himself within short… "The duke.. what's his name… the duke of…" but the Duke of… obstinately refused to tell his name…"All right, that's enough for the time being!…" the teacher sternly ordered himself and turned his face to the wall. After lying like this for some time, he opened his eyes and said: "No problem, I've got plenty of time to sleep later. Let me see… The Duke of… Bal… No… The Duke of Cal… No… The Duke of Ram…" But in spite of that mnemotechnical method, the general's name remained hidden within unfathomable depths, which called Carnafil to exclaim aloud:"I'm the last of fools, indeed! Is that any concern of mine at the moment?" and in order formally to deny this unfavourable opinion of himself, he closed his eyes again and turned his back upon Napoleon. That gesture clearly pointed to his unflinching intention to break any intellectual communication with the Frenchman. The next moment, however, he sat up and riveted his eyes most tensely upon an indefinite point in space… But the English here continued to remain anonymous!Caranfil flunk himself down again, then suddenly threw of the blankets, stepped out of his bed and started pacing up and down the room: "Let me see!" he said in a loud voice. "Let's take it gradually, bit by bit… Like this!" And as if he had been in his classroom he began asking questions and supplying the answers himself: "Please, where was Napoleon defeated?" "At Waterloo." "Right. And who defeated him?" "The Duke of…" Caranfil halted in front of Napoleon's face, at which he stared insistently, as if he had intended to read in the features of the French hero his enemy's name. But the emperor preserved his dignity and refused to be taken in by the teacher's manipulations. That is why our friend resumed his questions, while pacing the room in agitation: "Who was Napoleon's victor?" "The duke of…"This time the question was asked with all the vehemence required by the circumstances, and the answer was given in a hurry, as if the teacher had wanted to take by surprise a defenceless enemy. That artifice too proved useless, however!One could see miles off that the duke had made up his mind to divert himself in his aerial abode at the expense of our friend… Caranfil stopped in the middle of the room and in the most persuasive tone said: "I must be wise… I must wait until tomorrow… That's not such a long time after all… Tomorrow I can learn it without any doubt." And, as if appending a conclusion to this very solid judgement, the teacher again gazed at an indefinite point in space. "Now, to speak in earnest… after all what do I care who his victor was? Let them both go to the deuce let's say!… Come on Caranfil… Don't be foolish… Go to bed!"And indeed, following such a wise admonition, Caranfil went to bed again, closed his eyes and even covered his face with a pillow. Barely five minutes had elapsed when he again raised his head and said sotto voce: "Kutuzoff, Blücher, Schwarzenberg and…" But not even in the company of his fellow-generals, did the English one accept to come out to light, which caused Caranfil to bury his face among pillows and to kick desperately, commending Napoleon to every devil in the world – with the enemies to boot.He stepped out of his bed, plunged a towel into cold water, wrapped it round his head, then began furiously pacing along and across the room, while repeating like a swat: "Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo… stop… stop…!" "Who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo?" "The Duke of…"While he was thus stirring about, a happy gleam brightened up his face and Caranfil stopped, stood stock-still and said aloud, with the most perfect conviction, while riveting his eyes on a crack in the floor: "All men are mortal. The Duke of… is a man… therefore the Duke of… is mortal."The reader should not al all indulge in the thought that under the influence of that fixation, our friend's mind had strayed across the fields. Far from it! Then what was the reason? He had remembered that a long time before, in his student years, he had picked from an English handbook of logic this example of a syllogism, in which the conquering duke was the subject of the minor proposition; and since history had let him down on that accursed night, he had hoped for a moment that at least philosophy could come to his rescue…But it was all in vain! He felt he would find it impossible to go to sleep. He was seized with a horrible headache, nervous, most probably – and unbearable. Caranfil opened the window and pleasant fresh air invaded the room, cooling his hot head. From the opposite hill came the gentle rustling of fir-trees. The moon blandly lit the undulating landscape and in its light, Napoleon's face detached itself very clearly on the wall. Caranfil stared at him once more, with the same intention as before; nevertheless, the emperor, in side-view, one hand stuck into the opening of his tight-fitting coat and the other one behind him, obviously defied Caranfil with his cold and arrogant air…For the teacher, the matter started acquiring the proportions of a genuine catastrophe. Where could he learn the truth?… What was he to do? … Sleeping was now out of the question… And he paced the house with large strides, talking to himself and gesticulating:"He was in Portugal…" "Who was in Portugal?"… "The Duke of Brag… No… All men are mortal… How the deuce could I forget his name? … The Duke of Rag… Let him go to hell…"Impossible! For a moment he thought of father Chiprian… But no!… That was stupid… He himself realised it in due time… How could the monk-priest remember the English general's name? Where could he go? …What should he resort to? That's it! He would go to his friend Vasiliu… He was the only man that could allay Caranfil. It was too long to wait until the morning. Caranfil dressed up, put on his shoes and went out. Vasiliu had taken lodgings in the other part of the village, close to the Resurrection Church… But it didn't matter. Caranfil traced his steps in that direction…Having come out of the house, he saw the lighted window of father Chiprian, who lived in a ramshackle little house close by, and Caranfil pondered for a moment:"No, of course it's stupid… How could the man know?"Nevertheless, impelled by some indefinite urge, he found himself inside the priest's house…The religious man, about 80 years old at the time, was crossing himself while reading a book. Catching sight of the visitor, he asked:"Haven't you gone to bed yet?""Oh, yes… but I'm not sleepy. I took a glance at those pictures on your walls.""Soon they will ring the bells for matins," the monk said."Have you had those pictures for a long time, father?""I've inherited them from father Ioachim.""You've also got Napoleon's portrait. He used to be a great emperor…""That he might have been, certainly.""Does your reverence remember whom he fought?"The monk eyed him curiously, then answered:"He might have fought Hosman Pasha.""Well, father," Caranfil spurted out, "don't you remember what country Napoleon ruled?""Of course I do. The country of the Germans."Caranfil left the religious man in God's hands and rather discouraged, made for Vasiliu's house…The night was of the finest. On the path climbing uphill to the Resurrection Church, the sight was simply marvellous, but Caranfil was bent on entirely different matters: "He commanded the army together with Blücher… Therefore, who commanded alongside Blücher? All men are mortal… the Duke of… is a man…"Any method was to no avail! Fortunately he had walked most of the distance up to Vasiliu's house…When he reached the Resurrection Church it was already midnight. Silence reigned supreme over all the surroundings. It was only the bell-board at the monastery that could be heard, the hammering now softer now louder, calling the faithful to prayer, while from the bottom of the forests that surround the monastery on the hill on three sides, another bell-board, from some unknown hermitage responded, now louder, now softer…Caranfil knocked on his friend's window and called his name."Who's there?" the man inside cried."It is I.""Is that you?""Yes. Were you asleep?""Yes, I'd really gone to sleep. What is it?""Please, if you don't mind, what's the name of the English general who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo? The man in charge of the command."After a brief pause, Vasiliu asked: "Have you gone crazy or what?""Now cut the joking and answer me," Caranfil said.Vasiliu did not answer but a noise was heard inside the house and shortly afterwards the door of the corridor opened and a figure came out on the porch, dressed in white and a coat pulled over its shoulders: "What's the matter with you man?""There's nothing the matter," Caranfil answered, "it's just that I've forgotten the name of Napoleon's victor and since the evening I've been racking my brains to remember what he was called and I can't.""Is that why you called?""It is.""Now, didn't you call at the neighbourhood madhouse this morning, by any chance?" Vasiliu asked him dead earnest… Vasiliu thought for a moment, then said:"I don't remember."Caranfil insisted: "Remember… Please remember… He was a Duke… The Duke of… Try hard to remember… He was supreme commander at Waterloo… First he had fought in Portugal. He's a Duke…"Vasiliu seemed to be pondering deeply. Caranfil added:"It's he who at the height of the Waterloo battle said: 'Let's die for old England.' D'you remember?" "Die for England?""Yes, yes, yes!" Caranfil brightened with hope.Following the explanations and while Caranfil held his breath, Vasiliu thought hard:"I can't remember.""Think of it… Please… Think hard… He was a minister in 1828 or something.""In 1828?""Yes… In Robert Peel's cabinet.""Metternich?" Vasiliu advanced somewhat shyly.Caranfil lost his temper:"Well, man, was Metternich English? Is that what you remember from history? A shame on you to say such silly things, to hell with it!"And Caranfil was utterly discomfited.Vasiliu answered him quietly:"Now man, what's the matter with you? Coming here to row with me… in the middle of the night? Come on, get along, for I'm cold too…""Please," Caranfil said, with a change in his tone: "Don't be angry with me… Think a little harder… It wasn't Metternich…"Vasiliu did think, but he answered:"No… I don't remember.""You don't remember or you don't know?""I don't remember.""Please… remember!""Now leave me alone, you've spoilt my sleep… I can't remember. Hell, are you mad or just mocking me?"And Vasiliu went in, locking the door behind him…Caranfil stood thinking for a moment. He took his hand to his forehead, after which operation he released a terrible word, loaded with grief, most probably meant for the Duke of… thingamy… such a word as no Englishman nor any other person had probably addressed to the Duke…After that he retraced his steps downhill.Occasionally he stopped on his way:"No, that can't be… That simply can't be. The Duke of… the Duke of Mag… No… The Duke of Bag… No! Hold it!" And he immediately gave out a torrent of words meant to relieve his mind – words that enwrapped at the same time the Duke, the monastery, his friend Vasiliu more especially and all human affairs generally. Then he shouted out, as if on a bad telephone line:"Waterloo! …the Duke of…"Caranfil reached his lodgings without having been able to establish any psychological, etymological or chronological relationship between the various things brought to light by him on that accursed night and the name of the victorious duke. No sooner had he entered his room than he flung himself on the bed, in despair. For a moment ha lay like this without flinching, then he stood up, opened the window, paced about the house, eyeing Napoleon with ferocious hatred. But the emperor looked cold and impassive.At long last, he undressed, took off his shoes throwing them God knows where and lay down in his bed, tucking the blankets over his head.But all of a sudden he jumped out of bed as if bitten by a serpent and rushed at a case at the bottom of the room."Blockhead I am!" Caranfil shouted loud, striking his forehead, then from the case he ran to the table, putting his hand on it, fumbling for the matches and continuing to gratify himself with the title of blockhead; then he rushed at the window, where again made some gestures as if he were playing on the keyboard of some instrument, seized his clothes and, quivering, wild with excitement, searched all his pockets. Not finding here either what he was looking, for, he again pounced on the case and began rummaging inside in the darkness. He found a small but thick book and, mastered by just one thought, he dashed out like mad, stopping his race only on reaching a street lamp, about two hundred yards from his house. There he opened the book and under Napoleon's heading he read the words:"He was defeated at Waterloo on June 18, by the allied armies under the command of the Duke of Wellington and-""Aha! All right! And go to hell!" Caranfl shouted, very much relieved. "The Duke of Wellington therefore!" Followed another word in the Romanian vernacular, meant for the Englishman alone, but this time loaded with satisfaction…And, trembling with cold, fearing that somebody might see him barefooted and in that rather strange attire, Caranfil ran back home, went to bed quietly and soon fell asleep…
by D. D. Pătrăşcanu (1872-1937)
